Dubious Allegiance (5 page)

“Keep going!” Marc called out.

They emerged on the far side, prepared to give chase. But thirty-five yards ahead stood a log rampart, hastily constructed of nearby corral railings with gun-slits arranged at intervals. A wave of shotgun explosions shattered the air above the din of the battle now going on around the cowshed on the right. Marc heard the spruce boughs on either side of him rattle, and felt a sharp blow, like a tack hammer's sting, at his waist. He dropped to his knees. There was no pain. Around him came terrified screams and low moaning. They had been ambushed. He opened his mouth to sound the retreat, but no words came out. With eyes full of righteous anger and a single rivulet of
blood on one cheek, Hilliard looked quizzically at his superior officer.

Marc swung his sabre frantically.

Hilliard nodded and yelled, “Back into the bush, lads! It's a trap!”

Marc staggered into the trees. Three of his men lay writhing out in the open. He took a moment to examine his wound. There wasn't one. The bird shot had barely penetrated his jacket, with its extra armour of mud.

“Are you hurt?” Hilliard asked, kneeling down.

“I'm all right. We need to get the wounded back in here.”

Sergeant Ogletree and three others managed to haul them into cover, protected by several volleys from the fellow troop next to them, which had also been strafed and had retreated to the safety of the evergreens. Captain Riddell's voice could now be heard hollering orders, encouragement, or castigation above the crackling of the gunfire, the fast-falling snow, and the smothering spruce boughs. Heavy fighting seemed to be going on over by the cowshed on their right. The odour of cordite was thickening the air around them.

Marc's squad was commanded to provide covering volleys for a full-company attack on the log-rampart. But the poor visibility—intermittent as a north wind gusted and died—made it difficult to see whether their volleys were having any effect, while the assault itself quickly bogged down before the rampart was reached. The ground was again littered with the wounded and those pinned there by the enemy, who seemed able to shoot from spots both hidden and implausible. Marc was surprised, and more than a little disappointed, that the lives of his
men would be put at such risk in an assault carried out without the aid of maps, advance scouting, or any real knowledge of the rebels' terrain, battle strength, or opportunities for defence.

When the snow let up briefly, it was evident that the frontal attack on the rampart had failed. Men were being dragged back to the copse by their comrades, one of them an ensign with his arm swinging loosely, like the empty sleeve of a jacket. Then, without warning, a dozen rebels rose up above the rampart and aimed their ragtag weapons at the retreating and wholly vulnerable redcoats. Marc screamed the order for a full volley, but the rebels had figured out the timing between volleys and knew they had twenty seconds to inflict severe damage on the exposed British.

Suddenly, before the rebels had time to begin firing, the pounding of hoofbeats shook the ground nearby, and a troop of Montreal cavalry burst around the northern end of the copse and made a thunderous charge at the rampart. Several of them were now firing their pistols, so that between the shock of seeing horses charging out of the snowy squalls like beasts from the Apocalypse and the deadly snap of pistol fire, the rebels balked momentarily, then dropped out of sight behind their barricade. Meanwhile, the wounded infantrymen and their rescuers made it back to the shelter of the trees.

Before the Montreal volunteers could reach the rampart and bring their swords into play, the rebels had regained their gun-slits and begun firing, desperately and blindly. But a horse is a large target, and here there was no respect for the martial animal, no code of conduct to be recognized and honoured. Half a dozen of the noble creatures collapsed in undignified
heaps, tossing their riders awry and shrieking piteously. Dazed, with limbs bruised or broken, the Montrealers staggered away in several directions. Only a series of sharp volleys from the riflemen in the copse kept the enemy at bay long enough for those unhorsed volunteers to find their way back. Those who managed to remain mounted had to veer around their fallen comrades or their dying beasts. They broke apart and scattered. But foolishly brave though they might have been, they had saved perhaps a dozen lives by their impetuous gambit.

“Christ, Marc. I thought these Frenchies would be a bunch of yokels and misfits,” Hilliard said.

“They may well be,” Marc said, “but we've chosen to fight them on their home ground. They've got muskets, rifles, ammo . . . and a cause.”

Sergeant Ogletree arrived to inform Marc that the captain had decided to try to clear the rebels from the rampart by attempting to encircle it from both sides. Marc's troop was again to provide covering fire until the flanking movements were well under way, then they were to storm the barricade with bayonets at the ready while the enemy was distracted. But the company would wait ten minutes or so to begin the assault in the hope that the snow might start up again.

Marc was only half paying attention. His eye had caught sight of a horse in its death throes about twenty yards from the rampart. Its lips were foaming, and one huge eye was slowly rolling to a ghastly stop. And trapped underneath the animal's hindquarters was its rider. He was on his stomach, so the only way he could attempt to raise the dying creature's haunches off the lower part of his own body was by rising up
onto his knees. But the dead weight was too much for him, and he was now clawing at the earth with both hands in a fruitless effort to pull himself free. Fortunately, he was facing the little woods, with the animal's bulk shielding his presence, and plight, from the rebels behind the barricade. Any sounds he might have been making were drowned out by the continuing fire from skirmishes going on over by the outbuildings and the stone house.

“We can't just leave him out there,” Hilliard said. And he took a step towards the open ground.

Marc put a hand on his shoulder. “I'll go,” he said, and, without looking back, he rushed towards the stricken man in a low, trotting crouch, well within the range of any rifles poking out of the improvised loopholes in the enemy barricade. But it wasn't until he had dropped down beside the surprised, and terrified, horseman that the first shots snapped at the breeze. One of them struck the upraised foreleg of the horse and shattered the bone.

“It's all right, I'm British,” Marc said reassuringly. He realized that in his mud-caked clothes he could have been anyone: only his shako cap would be a certain sign of his allegiance.

“I can't move my legs! I can't feel my foot!” The “officer” turned out to be a corporal, a young man no more than twenty or so, beardless, handsome despite his pain-distorted features and glazed, goitered stare.

“I've got to lever the hindquarters of your horse so you can drag yourself free,” Marc said. “Then we'll have to make a sprint for it. If we're lucky, one of the troops in the woods will give us a volley to get us started.”

“Why doesn't Prince move? I can't get him to move!” The lad's cry was anguished.

“Your horse is dead,” Marc said, as he drew his sabre carefully from its scabbard without raising his head above the cover being provided by the faithful Prince. The shooting had stopped, but Marc knew that the rebels would be waiting for the next act in this diverting little drama. Perhaps he should just wait here until the next assault began. But he was supposed to be leading a phase of it: technically, he had deserted his post. Moreover, his clambering about in the middle of the attack zone could well interfere with any covering or distracting volleys being planned. He would have to risk returning now. His concern for an individual soldier had overridden his duty to the troop and the company.

The corporal groaned horribly, either at the news of Prince's demise or his own considerable pain.

“Hang on. I'm going to lift up the horse's rump as far as I can, then you'll have to do the rest. And it's going to hurt. If you can't manage it, we're both dead men.”

The lad's eyes widened. “I'll manage it, sir.”

“Good. Now here we go!”

Marc wedged the flat blade of his sword as far under the horse's huge thigh as he could; then, using his shoulder for leverage, he began slowly to lift, mustering all his waning strength in the effort. Even so, he could not have levered the beast nearly enough for his comrade to pull free if the latter had not had the good fortune to lie in a small furrow. Marc merely needed to raise the dead weight up about five inches. However, as soon as the rebel sharpshooters spotted the horse
apparently moving, they began firing. One bullet knocked Marc's cap askew; others slammed into Prince's body. His master gasped with each insult.

“Dig your hands in and pull!” Marc cried. “I can't hold this thing up much longer!” Cold sweat was pouring down his face.

The young man did as he was ordered, letting out a bone-chilling shriek with each inch that he moved his crushed legs. He had to extricate himself by using only the upper part of his body, as his legs appeared to be lifeless. Marc's shoulder, arms, and hands started to go numb. In another second he would have to let go. Bullets continued to whiz over his head or thud into the horse. With a wheezing gasp, Marc released the sabre. The corporal screamed as if he had been gelded.

Marc forced himself to look over at him. The young man's legs—limp, one of them askew—were completely free. His face was grey and awash with sweat. He was trembling uncontrollably. His lips were working, but he was unable to speak.

“One of your legs is broken,” Marc said. “The other is likely numb, but you may be able to stand on it. When I say ‘go,' I want you to raise both arms. I'm going to haul you up, and we're going to make a run for it as if we're in a three-legged race. Understand?”

When no words would come, the young man nodded his assent.

Just then a volley of gunfire roared out of the woods. Hilliard had been watching Marc's every move. He was giving them four or five seconds of relief from the sniper fire.

“Go!”

The pounding of Marc's heart and the rasping of his breath
drowned out the corporal's shrieks as the two men rose up, crab-like, against the horizon, and started to scuttle raggedly towards the woods. There could be no more covering fire now. They were silhouetted against the treeline like ducks in a shooting gallery.
Forgive me,
Marc whispered to Beth, who was always somewhere close by, as he braced for the bullet that would end his life and break his promise. Several of them skidded through the grass at his feet. The lad's legs were useless. He had fainted with pain or terror. Marc picked him up in both arms, just as a fresh thought struck him: I will die with an enemy bullet in my back!

But there were no more bursts of gunfire. The air about him had gone ominously quiet. Yet he was still moving: he could feel his boots thudding on the frost-hardened ground. He could feel the wind gusting and pulling on his tunic. He could feel snow on his cheeks. Snow. He was running—camouflaged—through a squall.

“This way! This way!” It was Hilliard's voice, soon joined by a chorus of others, orienting him as a rattling cup does a blind man.

Seconds later he collapsed into a tangle of spruce boughs.

“You made it!” Hilliard declared, beside him. And there was awe in his voice.

*   *   *

The rescued man was taken back to the surgeon. No-one in Marc's company knew his name, and he was soon forgotten as Captain Riddell's plan to take the barricade was now ready to be executed. The brief squall that had saved Marc's life was now over. The air was clear and cold again. Sporadic gunfire to the
right indicated that the main battle was still progressing. Marc was grateful that his squad had been designated to provide only the covering fire for Riddell's pincered assault, as the adrenaline that had kept him going till now was fast draining away and not likely to return. He ordered Hilliard to direct the opening volleys, while he sat on his haunches and took deep breaths. Some sodden biscuit had been brought up, and he nibbled at it dutifully. Once the flanking troops had succeeded in nearing the sides of the log-rampart, he knew he would have to find some reserve of strength to lead his squad on the frontal assault and hand-to-hand fighting with sabre and bayonet.

He heard the opening volleys, then the individual gunfire of the advancing troops, left and right.

“They're pinned down already,” Hilliard informed him. “We've got to go in now, or our fellows will be cut to pieces.”

Marc tottered to his feet. “Sergeant,” he said to Ogletree, “have the men fix bayonets. We're going to clear those buggers from that pile of poles!”

Moments later, Marc found himself leading the charge across ground that he had already traversed twice. The enemy gunfire on both flanks of the rampart had stopped abruptly. The rebels must have guessed at the plan and were hastily reassembling at their gun-slits to take on the frontal assault. Dodging dead horses and two fallen comrades, Marc's men sallied towards the barricade, bayonets brandished and voices roaring with menace and bravado. At the same time, the troops on either flank began to rise and make a dash towards the same target. This was it. Once in such motion, no British infantry unit could be stopped, short of annihilation.

Marc was the first man to leap up onto the rampart and start swinging his sabre. There was nothing to swing at. In less than thirty seconds the rebels had melted away, undetected. Their rampart had been raised on the crest of a shallow coulee, so they had been able to retreat running upright and unseen to a dozen possible sniping positions beyond.

“Damn it all,” Hilliard cursed angrily, slicing at the air with his fearsome blade and looking up and down the barricade. “All that suffering on our part and we haven't killed
one
of the bastards yet!”